"All
I wanted was to say honestly to
people: ĎHave a look at yourselves
and see how bad and dreary your lives
are!í The important thing is that people
should realize that, for when they do,
they will most certainly create another
and better life for themselves."

--Anton Chekov

The Altars of Change

The light is so eerie in this
place
my eyes are bloodshot by the time I get out
Today I donít work on the line, I work in the
warehouse
This old lady, Millie, keeps losing her count
then she struggles to regain her dignity, is there any
left?
She used to be something..., someone...,
the head cook at the grade school
Itís a Marxist nightmare in here
Time goes so slow
I made this hair spray, Iím so proud
My Love, I donít want you to ever have to do this
I donít want our children to ever have to do this
The people here tell me why theyíre stuck here
Jason says his ex-girlfriend made him lose his job,
house, car...
everything
Everybodyís got something to blame
I just blame myself
One generation offered on the altar of change
"Whatís your name, who sent you to this line?"
Uh..., I forgot her name, but sheís wearing a red
smock
Their world is so small, they think its so big
The bell rings
Millie walks out, trips, falls face down,
bruising her forehead
Sheís worried that she broke her glasses
Another generation sacrificed

Whatís it like being a girl
when all the boys are teasing you
how does it feel inside
does it make you want to cry
or maybe just scream

Whatís it like being a
teenage girl
when teenage boys have
put their eyes all over you
does it make you feel like dirt
or maybe you just cry

ARE YOU A PET
PERHAPS
A POSSESSION
1/2
OR WHOLE
MAYBE
A LESSER PERSON

Is it written in stone
is anyone certain
an age old lie

a tradition

Whatís it like being a woman
with all the different scars
from being a girl
is it any different now
(except that you canít cry)
Please
tell me
if you can
Iíll
try to understand
what
its like being a girl

I donít live here anymore
I died back there with you
The past has become my present
I have ceased to exist in this present reality

I donít live here anymore
The past becomes my now
This cruel reality holds me
But Iím just a corpse

When you left me on this
time-line
the future ceased to be for me

This linear existence
that I canít seem to exist in
has become a big dilemma for a lot of us
We are lonely, anxious, hungry, need a needle...
donít want to be
be
here
without you
Iíd rather be back there so I can be with you

WE ARE MANKIND
HAVE MERCY ON US
WE ARE MANKIND
HAVE PITY WHEN YOU SEE US
TRY TO UNDERSTAND

red
i know you belong to someone
you hair ...,
you are so beautiful
say something funny
i canít stop staring
the hair
i hung up her coat and she told me i was nice
i donít want to let her see me cry
so gentle
this one
her soul
why do i love this one
she belongs to someone else
i forgot i was ugly
her voice is lovely
she belongs to him
just standing next to her
that memory will be enough to break me
these things take so long to get over
iím too ugly for her
she belongs to someone else
he is better for her
please say something funny
i canít let her see me cr...
red

A mother, the son
walking together
alone
dead dried worms
sidewalk
after the STORM
A man, sinner
ADULTERY
pants down
caught
loss of dignity
job
in this place
The letter A
the letter A
A stands for
APPLE
J for
Jack
Whatís Daddy gonna do now?
asks the son
no SUN
in sight
clouds for days

you
me
weíre guilty too
we just didnít get caught
thatís all
The people, the stares
friends?
CONTAGION
starting all over
all over again
again
Mercy mercy
MERCY
Oh no! not the letter, please
no
donít send me away

Were you there
he
died once
are you here
for
all people
was I there
he
died
I am here
he
lives
Iíve been missing
they
deserted him
LOYALTY
ran
away
are you here
they
came back
I am here
Yesterday was for today
Yesterday became the now
Everyday and yet not any day
All at once by one for all
Somewhere on the time and space continuum
Somewhere..., somewhere
were you there
Was I there
no
Iíve been a failure
get on the knees
tears
(Selah)
186,000 miles per second
were you there?
mysterious vicarious penal atonement
ARE YOU HERE?
the speed of light
the speed of sound
something about the sound
silence

The TornadoThe
TornadoThe TornadoThe Tor
nadoThe
Tornado The tornado writhed in
anguish and anger and no
matter wh
at she did it
wouldnít go away so
she tried Pepto-Bismal but st
ill he was there ice cream
sounds good for you kno
w these summer days
the low fronts and
heat you are lic
king my toes
oh that is
gross
sur
prised
to see a
shoe-shine st
ill around these p
arts of the play this w
hole town is a stage coach
petti-coat juncture no I donít th
ink this is a tornado an hour glass of
water is fine $10 by 5:00 tomorrow or t
he tornado begins again. TheTornadoTheTo
rnadoThe TornadoThe TornadoThe TornadoThe

Some lobster sez he wants two
take off
his read armor and run around down their at
the bottom of the see, butt; heís afrayed you
mite sea him an he says the last lobster that
did it won a ewe humans eight hymn write up
butt likes eye tells him, sea, eye nose you
aint no type a person to eight up a pour ol
lobster cause you no a mahn rips what he
sews; specially won who would stoop sow lo,
write? Sow then eye thinks four a second and
asks the lobster, "Weight, wonít it bee cold
four ewe down their? Wonít ewe frees your
little read self ifín you lie down their four
Moor than sicks minutes? "Maybe" he replied,
"Butt Iíve been Hyden inn hear all my life; I
ainít sew Jung know moe either, an once ewe
start to due something itís hard too take it
Bach, or at lease thatís what my ant told me".

Thom is
talking
in his sleep again
there were not enough
moments in his day
for his mind to give
forth all he had to say
Now he lies upon his back
and words come forth to
me on the top bunk
Maybe someday his
dreams will come forth
and return everything he
has entrusted to
them; every secret
he has shared with
them in the night
But right now
I just wish heíd shut up.

It has been said that when you
look into the
Darkness it sometimes looks back at you

And I can tell you that it
doesnít matter if
you were only taking a quick glance or if you
meant to look or not; for the Darkness knows no
partiality

At that point you must hold
on; it may appear
as though the Night was always within you,
you might wonder if you ever knew the Light
at all
You could be bitten or devoured, slapped or
punched, with the wind knocked out of you or
left for dead, but one thing is certain; you
will survive

The Abyss, and the evil
therein, may seem
triumphant, but remember, itís powers are
limited over those who believe in the Light

The Evil preys on fears and
fuels all doubts;
it chains the necks of the innocent so they
cannot turn and look when they hear Hope calling

Sins are gathered by the
handfuls and smeared
in the faces of these would-be slaves
In short, Oppression has itís fill of
destruction and yearns for more

But the Light is no proprietor
of injustice,
and though the night be long with dense gloom,
Sunís beams and rays will pronounce truth that
dispells the Darkness and returns warmth to the
battered soul

Hey Matt Iíd love to
just dive into a big tank
of reverb and drown for days singing all
them melonbroccoli songs that make you so
saded I know there was a time when I didnít
like reverb at all that was my pure and rawphase but now I like it to sound
like Iím in
that gym in South Dakota singing all alone
and thinking of those women I left behind
wondering if they kept the pictures I drew
them of if they use the backs of them for
phone messeges but Iím not really thinkingthat so I donít know which
psychic hot-lineyouíve
been calling but thereís the real fakes
and then thereís the fake ones and besides
everytime we play Monopoly you always
want to be the little dog which leaves me
with the race car going, oh, maybe 60 beats
per minute (if even that fast) an right now I
donít think Iíd get tireded of that at all unless
I was on I-57 in the VW with my lead foot do
you why I stopped you no sir why did
you stop me donít know ociffer how fast was
I going whatís the hurry no hurry mean to tell
me you were speeding thru my town without
a reason well Iím aí gonna give you a warning
son but next time go easy on the reverb.

You canít answer their
questions directlyand my head rests on my hand
as I ponder
how will it arrive on their platter
this time
this time
Salomae wants something like she saw
in the designer book
Judas keeps his ear to the ground
I lift up my hands for a cure
I know it takes time
and I know Iím not
Jesus
save me soon
save me soon
I get nervous
I tell lies
I donít react too fast
Iím up, Iím down, all over the place
But I know thereís a heart in there
somewhere
the healing is coming and I will be
redeemed
there is hope
and I will not be numb
peace be with youand also with yousalvation comes by the name (no
other)
Jesus

Sometimes I think about
Jesus
the way they beat him so bad
he was bleeding all over his body
He could barely walk
and they made him carry his cross
until he couldnít carry his cross anymore

Nails through the hands
a spike through the feet
a crown of thorns on his head
His mother cries while he hangs there
--was this some kind of mistake?

He didnít do anything
wrong
Why must we fear what we donít understand
He did so much good
He gave so much love
For this a man is made to die?

He gave all that life
yet you took his from him
you took it away

you took it away

"I am the good
shepherd; the good
shepherd lays down his life for the
sheepÖNo one has taken it away from
me, but I lay it down on my own
initiative. I have authority to lay it
down, and I have authority to take it up
again" (The Gospel of St. John
10:11, 18).

". . . with the kind
help of his professor
Dr. Rick Hill
and the Advanced Writing Seminar
Class"

Around the Fire

Novemberís chilly breath
fell from midnight blue
pressed down on our backs
eight of us
around the fire
our bodies warmed by flames

We found communion there
eyes and souls meeting in the orange-glow
we embraced silence
touched for a moment
somewhere in the popping wood and flickerlight

Tanya began to sing an old
tune
the celtic melody haunted our bones
we drank in her soft soprano timbre
watched as notes mingled with the dark and enticed by flames

I closed my eyes and pretended
she was singing just for me
(Mike did too)

June and Carol seemed to need
to talk about something
they excused themselves and left for a walk around the lake

Then Aaron told a story
memorizing us with his deep bass voice
the slow droning wrapped us in a blanket of contented drowsiness

To this day, none of us
remembers what the story was about

Tim proposed that we sing a
hymn and we all agreedOh Little Town of Bethlehem
was the only one that we all knew
so, in the middle of November, we sang it

The fire died down and we grew
silent again
June and Carol returned and joined the quiet
as the last waves of heat licked our faces
forced our tears
connected our inner minds
with the myth of what is created and stolen

When I was about five years
old I had a strange
incident. My brother, some neighborhood boys and
I were roaming about outdoors doing things that
little boys do; climbing trees, playing with little cars
in the dirt, burying toy soldiers up to their heads etc.,
when suddenly we began wrestling. I canít
remember how it happened, but me and my brother
paired up for a romp and captured everyoneís
attention. As it happened I pinned my brother down.
One of the boys shouted "Beat him up!" The others
cheered in agreement. I looked my brother straight
in the eye, he looked back and said "Bobby no!" I
began hitting him in the face. I didnít know why I
was doing it. He could have hit me back but he
didnít. Finally the nausea made me stop and I ran
away.

Just before the fall semester,
I went home to find a
scrap book that was compiled by my uncle Johnny.
I found a lot of information in that book; some of it
very hard for me to process. My Grandfather was a
marine general, I knew that much, but I didnít know
what he did specifically. I found out that he was
responsible for napalm tactics.

A friend of mine, Matt Malyon,
left early this
year to teach in Korea. he returned in October
with quite a story: He had gone to a hotel lounge
one night with some friends. One of his friends
was a Korean-American woman who, incidently,
doesnít know the Korean language. She was
approached by a Korean man, she tried to tell
him "Iím american, I donít speak Korean."
Obviously the man felt slighted-- he broke a
bottle over Mattís head.

I have lived in many places. I
have done and seen many things.
All kinds of music and literature have influenced me. Recently
Iíve been thinking about my role as a writer; am I just
exploiting situations and people or am I a creator of beauty? Itís
hard to turn off my creative voice sometimes, it makes me feel
like Iím taking everything and everyone and turning them into a
story -- I donít want that.

I am the forgotten song
emerging in you
I communed with your soul when your grandmother sang
My verses are in your veins
my rhythm courses through your heart

Open your mouth and let me
out
I will fly back to the place of your birth
I will gather visions of school yards
and adolescent games
I will cross the ocean to the home of your ancestors
I will summon their language within your body

You will hear the echoes of
revolution and war
You will feel the passion of love and release
You will know the peace of joy and bravery

Its all here
inside of me
I am the song

II.

I am blues
I am jazz
I am rock and roll

I am Muddy Waters singing
"I beís troubled" on the front porch of
a cabin on Stovall Plantation
I tell you "I never beís sasafied"
and you say the sorrow sounds sweeter
than sweet potato pie

I am John Coltrane with my
tenor sax on a good night in the
Harlem Beat Kitchen
Miles is playing the sad notes
Bird is playing the pretty ones
and I am burning a hole in this ceiling
Art and Monk are sitting there with their mouths wide open saying
"Boy what got into you?"
and I say "No, what got out of me?"
because I got the heroine out of my veins

I am loud amplifiers,
headbands, costumes, platform shoes and yes
I can play this guitar
behind my back
and when Iíve strangled every sound out of this Stratocaster
that you couldnít imagine
and she is destroyed because her message was too wonderful to
hear
and burned like a witch
then you say
"He was our voice and our savior"

III.

I am bald like the eagle
and I glide high above
with succinct movements
exuding regality in all that I am

I screech and my voice
is swallowed in this canyon
where I believe myself to be
king

You admire me
but you smile a smug smile
knowing that one day
the sky will become a mirror

IV.

I am fat and spoiled
like the squirrel who plunders the moldy bread and bird seed
that my mother has left for the blue jays

In the thrill of my theft
I wander into the street
to receive rebuke from an angry Monte Carlo
panic stricken
I turn both to the left and to the right
forgetting my origin and name

V.

I am fearfully and
wonderfully made
I am every man and every woman
(no, this is not Walt Whitman)
and I am the LORDís creation
I am the forgotten song that is emerging in you

I am the inner-city and the
country
the soy beans and the section-8-government housing

I am the earth, wind, sky
and stars
I am the eagle
I am the squirrel
blues, jazz, rock and roll
rich, poor, wise and otherwise
I am american
I am the world

∑
all
proceeds from this album will go to the fund to promote Robert Rottetís personal and artistic legacies

www.robertrottet.com

Liner
Notes:

I
sit here in front of my keyboard, the monitor slightly to my left, and find
myself not knowing what to write.Directly
in front of me, on the otherwise blank wall, held in place with clear tape,
there is a quote on a white piece of paperóďMost people are other people.Their thoughts are someone elseís opinions, their lives a mimicry,
their passions a quotation.Oscar
Wilde.ĒIíve posted it here to remind me what Iím up against.To remind me how NOT to live./It is high praise: Robert Rottet was the antithesis of this quote.For all of his calm demeanor, humble spirit and introspection, he was a
man of intense passion.He was unique.If
I were challenged to come up with a mixture of his personality, I might venture:
Robert Rottet, Jesus Christ, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Thomas Merton, Job, and
Icarus.This surely is not
all-encompassing, but it says much about the many ways in which I believe Robert
was pulled./There is no doubt in my mind: Robert was called to be an artist.Yet I question whether I ever understood Robertís passion in all its
glory, conflict, or pressure.In
retrospect, I know I did not.It is
something I mourn.The last time we
were together, I remember us sipping wine and listening to Bachís cello suites
performed by Rostropovich.Robert
and I were sitting four feet apart, not saying anything.After some time, Robert said, ďYou can tell he feels so much.ĒThe moment, for me, indicates how attuned he was to emotion.It indicates how great a passion lay beneath his quiet exterior.Was it a passion only expressible in art?There are so many questions.But, beyond all conjecture there is this: his passion is given to us
full-force in his music, and here in his poetry.These are gifts./It is a popular view that the speaker of the poem is not necessarily the
poet himself.This being true, the
poet can still be known, in part, by the various voices, emotions and words that
his poems use.I believe Robert was
a very personal poet, and I believe we can hear him even in his most enigmatic
poems.This should be comforting,
challenging, and, inherently, bring us to a greater understanding of him as a
person and poet./I do not believe I ever heard Robert read any of these poems.I wish I had.I wish it were
his voice reading them and not mine.I
hope there are many more interpretations of his poetry, and I believe he would
find each interpretation valid and interesting.I believe more voices, rising to a chorus in the end, would evoke a
greater semblance of who Robert Rottet was than any single voice could ever hope
to do.This is simply one tribute
to a friend I will eternally miss./